


Forgetting

by CapricornAlice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapricornAlice/pseuds/CapricornAlice
Summary: Sherlock’s brain works too well, but he can fix that.





	Forgetting

“I love you John”  


“You’re high”  


“Doesn’t make it untrue”

  


His speech was beyond his control, slurring together, vision swimming. Had John even understood him?  


He’d overdone it this time. He knew he had.

Why had he let himself lose control?

  


_The foreign cologne on John_

 

_The sudden outings_

 

_The good moods whenever he came back, humming as he prepared them tea._

  
  


Sherlock’s brain worked faster than he’d like it to.  


 

 _A romantic partner._  


 

“That watch looks nice doesn’t it?”

John bought all sorts of gifts. Always for men.

  


_A boyfriend._  
  
  
_Not you._

 

 

‘Obviously it’s not me,” Sherlock had muttered, pressing the needle into his arm again.

After all, why would it be Sherlock? What had he done to deserve John’s love?  
  


_Nothing_  


 

“I know” he snarled, applying another patch to his left arm.

  


The syringe lay forgotten on the hardwood floor next to the couch Sherlock lay on.

He would make himself forget again. He could always make himself forget, even if it took a bit of extra help.

  


Sighing, he closed his eyes, trying to focus on their recent case.

  


_The wife killed her partner in a jealous rage._

_Murder weapon: A knife made of ice. Melted. Used to boil the pasta she’d served him and John. Any illness was sure to have been boiled away, but he’d still told John to not eat the food._

  


He groaned. It was too easy. So textbook.  


 

He tried to think of anything that wasn’t John. He made sure not to think of John running next to him, following Sherlock unquestioningly, turning corners towards what anyone else would have assumed was a dead end. He tried to shove the way John looked when he’d first learned of Sherlock’s drug use away. He refused to remember the way his brow furrowed, deepening the worry lines that Sherlock always seemed to bring out. He absolutely didn’t focus on how his brilliant blue eyes had probed Sherlock. _Why?_ He asked. _To help him think_ Mycroft had scoffed _Now where’s the list?_

  


That’s when John learned how to care for Sherlock.

  


He remembered the way John’s eyes widened at seeing the list. _How the bloody hell are you still standing_? His neat handwriting turned to illegible scrawls, proof of how much of what he took. No one could ever read his handwriting when it was like that.

  


John could.

  


_Because he’s a doctor. That’s his job. He doesn’t really care._

  


Sometimes he hated his mind. Hated how quick it was. How it’d figured out John was in love with-

  


A choked sob brought him back to the real world, it'd come from him. 

  


He hated his mind.

It always destroyed any hope he had. Always.

So he destroyed it back.

 

He’d mixed everything he had. Used it all. Sherlock wasn’t ignorant. He knew what those substances did to his brain. What they interfered with and how. Facts filtered in and out of his mind. Diagrams and studies reminding him of what he had just done.  


He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He didn’t _want_ to care. He was sick of it.  
  
  


Suddenly he’s on a bed. John above him, looking around for something.

 

_Now’s your chance._

 

Hadn’t he already said it?

 

 _Again_.

  
  


_No_.

 

But he felt his mouth open regardless.

 

Damn his brain.

He hated it when it destroyed his hope. But he hated it more when it worked with it.

  


“John”  


John was searching for something. He looked upset. Had Sherlock done that?

He couldn’t remember.

 

“What?” Sharp. Annoyed.

Ah. So Sherlock _had_ done that.

  


“I’m sorry” he tried to say. “I’m so so sorry. I’m sorry I’m not good enough. I’m sorry I’m not supportive. I’m sorry I’m not human enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

A slurred “Sorry” was all that came out.

 

John remained quiet, examining Sherlock. He counted the marks on his arm. Counted the patches and noted their potency.

Had he heard Sherlock?

Did he even care?

  


_Of course not. He’s only doing his duty as a doctor._  


Oh. Right.  
  
  


“Where’s the list?” That tone cut another line into his heart. The pain sharp and unrelenting, though Sherlock couldn’t remember why it hurt so much.  


“Sherlock...” Expectant. Upset.

 

_He’s always like that with you. You always do that to him._

 

Sherlock clenched his hand harder around the paper in his right hand. He’d protect John from this. Maybe he could do one thing right.

  


“Christ” Watson muttered to himself, surveying the list in his hand. When had he gotten that? When had Sherlock given it to him? He looked down at his hand. It was empty, extended towards John.

 

_You can never do anything right with him can you?_

 

“Just, sleep it off, Sherlock”

 

“John...” his voice slurred on a one syllable  word. Why was he calling for John? All he knew was that it was important John knew something. But what?  


“You’ll be fine”

  


_I won’t be. Not without more._

  


“I’m not letting you have any more,” John tucked the list in his pocket and picked up a bottle of pills on the ground, squinting to read the label. Sherlock had spoken? He hadn’t realized. “I’ll have Ms. Hudson have your tea ready for when you sober up.” He pocketed the bottle as he walked away.

 

 _That’s not what I mean._  


 

Either John hadn’t heard him, or he hadn’t spoken this time.  


_Or he ignored you._  


“I love you”  


 

But John was gone. More sensations registered in Holmes’ mind without his consent. Pieces clicking together as much as he resisted it.

 

_Vibrations._

 

John answered. The smile and warmth in his “hey” was almost tangible.

  


_A phone call._

  


_From-_

  


Holmes groaned, damn his quick brain. He could’ve lived without knowing that John was about to engage in hours worth of conversation with the man who made his eyes light up like Sherlock never could. With a man who could talk to John all day about normal things. A man who made John feel like his equal. Who was empathetic. Who showed emotion.

Someone who could excite John about life even if Sherlock always brought him back down again with another case.

 

Another murder.

Another high.

 

“Yeah, I’m home now,”

What Holmes could make out from the conversation didn’t include him. John didn’t mention his idiot flat mate who was too high to function. They talked about sports, the war, memories. Everything and nothing at the same time.

 

They were someone who deserved John’s attention.

 

A laugh. Genuine.

“I love you, too”  


Another wound tore into his heart. Deep, reopening the others in its path.

 

 _I can fix this_ he told himself, reaching for the bedside drawer.

 

_I can forget._

 

He searched for a pill bottle that he always kept there.

 

_I need to forget._

 

He remembered John pocketing a bottle.

Another warm laugh came from the kitchen.

 

_Not this time._

 

Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, wetting the white pillowcase underneath him. He prayed for unconsciousness to take him away. For everything to finally work and to break those connections in his brain that wouldn’t stop remind him of...

 

Of...

 

Of something..

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. Confusion filling him, but he accepted it, he'd figure it out again eventually. 

And when he did, he'd make himself forget again. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, pls criticize it will be much appreciated :3
> 
> -🐍


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